Go Inside Morocco’s Hidden Blue City

Micah Spangler

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A side of Morocco most tourists will never see. (Photo Micah Spangler)

Chefchaouen looks like a place that shouldn’t exist — and for more than 400 years, the locals liked it that way. Founded in the 15th century as a military outpost to fight off the land-hungry Portuguese, the city was closed off to foreigners until 1920.

Today this Moroccan gem entices visitors with its secluded mountain setting and maze-like medina, painted a hundred shades of mesmerizing blue.

Winding through the city’s neon corridors, I feel transported back in time. Vibrant rugs are stacked 50 high; Morocco’s famed leather goods — backpacks, duffel bags, and purses — frame shop windows; handmade jewelry lines the stone streets, making every step another chance to absorb the city’s energy.

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Get lost in the blue alleyways. (Photo: Micah Spangler)

As I strolled through the weathered town center, an aging man approached me. It’s a common occurrence in the new Chefchaouen, as budding restaurateurs and craftsmen unapologetically urge passersby to examine their offerings. “Don’t have to buy — just look!” seems to be the city’s unofficial mantra.

“I was born here in 1942,” the man says, walking next to me slowly up a short incline. “I was here with the hippies — many Americans, English, and Canadians came. We slept outside here,” he recalls fondly, casually pointing to the open square surrounding the medieval fortress that anchors the town. “Hash, music, everything. Jimi Hendrix came here. It all ended when he died in 1970.”

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That’s part of the strange symmetry of Chefchaouen, as it balances its deep Muslim culture with a renowned bohemian vibe.

Far away from Morocco’s budding metropolises, this hidden town has been allowed to embrace its quirky roots. Part of it has to do with the indigenous Amazigh (Berber) people who live among the surrounding Rif mountains. Although it has never materialized into anything too dramatic, the Amazigh have a distinct independent, anti-Arab sentiment that manifests itself in multiple ways. One of them is hash.

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Urban gardening is taken to a whole new level. (Photo: Micah Spangler)

While openly growing marijuana is technically illegal and policed, the Amazigh do it up in the mountains. Any tourist who ventures on a two- to four-hour hike in the area will inevitably stumble upon bountiful fields of cannabis.

As I said goodbye to the old man, I turned to size up the tower next to the fortress that gave the city its start. An Asian couple with matching backpacks walked ahead of me. I followed a few steps behind. All of a sudden, a man came running from a nearby restaurant, visibly upset. “That’s a mosque!” he yelled, wagging his finger and pointing to the tower. “Do not go in!”

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The couple seemed not to understand his words but could definitely interpret their meaning. They looked around, mouths slightly open, and receded from the structure. The man looked to me, seeming to hope I might share his frustration. I could sympathize somewhat — a holy site reduced to a quick photo opportunity — but was equally relieved I wasn’t the one he’d yelled at.

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Spend long days uncovering the hidden gems within this hidden gem. (Photo: Micah Spangler)

Towering above the town is another mosque. This one, however, is long abandoned. Constructed by the invading Spanish, the building never gained favor among the locals, who were long accustomed to throwing off the intrusions of would-be conquerors.

After a pleasant 45-minute hike up the nearby hill, two friends and I arrived at the neglected ruin. The sun had begun to set, and the city’s ancient blue was slowly replaced by modern electric lights. On cue, holy sites blared the evening call to prayer. The hymn echoed through the valley, calling into order Chefchaouen’s competing sights and sounds.

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Next to us sat a group of five or six teenage Amazigh boys. They were decked out in stylish counterfeit designer clothes, their Louis Vuitton and Armani logos only subtly askew. One of them produced a long, spindly pipe and packed a pinch of brown dust into it. The smoke rose from his hands as the call to prayer began to fade. The boys laughed without restraint, the assembled adults unconcerned with anything but the soaring view. Chefchaouen’s odd balance had survived another day.

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